The Soul Collector
by RainbowBetty
Summary: A hunt goes south and both boys end up on the wrong side of the thing they were hunting. Or were they hunting the wrong thing? Loaded with twists! Set between 2.20 What Is and What Should Never Be and 2.21 All Hell Breaks Loose. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Sam heard Dean shouting.

"Sam! Sammy!"

He looked up in the direction of it and tried to focus his eyes, actually startled by the sound of alarm in his brother's voice. A sharp pain dug into his side that made it hard to breathe, and he brought a hand up to it, pressing hard against the hot wetness that seeped through the fabric of his shirt and jacket.

Whatever it was, it was fine. He was fine. It _would be_ fine. It didn't even really hurt. His head was pounding. Had he hit his head? He tried to call out to respond to Dean and let him know he wasn't injured.

Dean just needed to know he was all right so he could get his attention back on the job at hand. He was injured. He knew that. But it was fine. Whatever was wrong, he would think about it once they were clear. Dean would fix it, stitch it, bandage it, whatever. It was fine, deal with it later, just get through this moment. This moment. Then the next one.

"I'm-" he started, and something stopped him from drawing in the breath he needed to say _fine. _And then, for some reason, he was falling.

* * *

Dean felt, more than saw, the blast of force that pushed his brother against the opposite wall of the abandoned warehouse, hurling him into a makeshift workbench that splintered on impact. At almost the same moment, giving himself over to instinct and adrenaline, he raised a shotgun and fired a round of salt into the hovering figure that was turning its attention to him. The apparition shrieked and was gone. Not _gone_ gone, obviously, but out of the way for a moment. He had probably bought them no more than the few minutes they needed to make their way to the back office where the creep's corpse had been stowed in a supply closet.

Sam was on his hands and knees, apparently struggling to get his feet under him. "Sam, you all right?" he called out. "Let's go, this way!"

That was when he saw that Sam was holding on to his side, bright red beginning to peek between his fingers.

He called out his brother's name and broke into a run, reaching him just as Sam's eyes rolled and the arm he was supporting himself on trembled and folded under him.

_Shit, shit, shit._ Dean took in the damage at a glance. Broken table, sharp edge, bad gash but not life threatening. That meant head trauma or shock. He anxiously surveyed the empty warehouse and then he gritted his teeth and yanked Sam's limp form up by his wrist, pulling Sam's arm around his shoulder and forcing them both to a stand.

The temperature around him suddenly plummeted, and his labored breathing came in visible puffs from the cold. "Oh, come _on!"_ Dean shouted, pivoting under Sam's weight to draw his weapon on the approaching spirit. "Just _one_ break. Is that too much to-"

Something hard hit the side of his head, hard enough to knock his vision out of line before everything went black.

* * *

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

Sam opened his eyes to complete darkness, and then drew in a sharp gasp as his breathing brought the pain in his side to life._ "Ah! Dammit,"_ he swore under his breath as he grimaced and curled in on himself, hearing his pulse in his ears and waiting for the stabbing pain to ease enough for him to risk another shallow breath.

He was aware of laying on hard, cold cement ground. There was an emptiness in the air around him that felt like wide, like an open space, but he couldn't see anything. The warehouse? Hadn't there been slatted windows, something to let at least some light in?

"Dean!" he called out weakly, the effort rewarding him with a renewed burst of pain that made him grit his teeth. He gingerly maneuvered himself up onto his elbow and strained to see. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the trickle of light and he could make out dark shapes. It wasn't the warehouse, but it was a large room of some kind. He wondered if it was a basement or utility room. He felt cold and sick to his stomach. He struggled to push into a sitting position. Where was Dean? Panic seized him. If Dean wasn't with him, something was wrong, very wrong. He fumbled for the phone in his jacket pocket, and felt that sliver of hope slip away as his fingers closed on the jagged pieces of plastic that had once been his cell.

Then he froze. Something near him in the dark was moving.

His first thought was of the thing they'd been hunting. Had Dean taken it out – or was it here now to finish him off? Was _Dean_ okay? Sam scuttled backwards, away from the sound of rustling fabric. His hand flew to the waistband of his jeans, feeling for a weapon. His gun was gone. He reached out blindly, wincing as sharp pain flared along his ribcage, groping along the floor for anything to defend himself, but he felt only the cold, gritty concrete floor. His eyes darted around the darkened room, his breath coming in small gasps.

"Hey," said a small voice in front of Sam.

Sam squinted. He could barely make out the shape of a small figure. Not glowing or ghostly. Human. A human kid.

Probably.

Sam exhaled the breath he'd been holding. "Hey! What—"

"You're hurt." The boy was crouching a few feet away, observing him.

"I'm… No, I'm— Where are we? Do you know, is there anyone else here?" Sam shook off the gnawing fear. No. Dean was fine. He had to be.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of you," the boy said.

_Okay._ Sam was trying and failing to put the pieces together. "Look," he said. "My brother was with me. Do you know—did you see anyone else here?"

Silence. Then, "That was your brother?"

Sam's heart leapt into his throat and he lunged to his feet, barely feeling the stab of what had to be broken ribs. "Where is he? Hey! You need to show me! Can you…" He was gasping for breath, struggling to form words. "Where is he?"

Startled, the kid backed away from Sam into the darkness.

Sam bent in two, hands on his knees, crushed by the pain in his side and the terrible fear that Dean had not made it out of the fight alive, or that he was lying somewhere hurt, needing Sam. "Please," he wheezed. "You've got to help me. I need to find him right now."

The kid's voice was even smaller, farther away now. "He's not here."

"Okay," said Sam. His mind was racing, leaping from one worst-case scenario to the next. He forced his voice to sound level, calm. "Listen. Hey. What's your name?"

"Daniel."

"Daniel," Sam said evenly. "Daniel, I'm Sam. Can you tell me where you saw my brother? Can you show me?"

Daniel seemed to hesitate. "You... you can't leave."

"It's okay, I promise," Sam pressed. "Just show me the way and... and, we'll go together, okay? Can you do that with me?"

He was starting to feel desperate. He took a few cautious steps toward the nearest wall and put his hand out, feeling through the dark until his fingertips brushed bare cement wall. All at once, Sam felt himself thrown off-balance by a deep rumble under his feet, sending him crashing sideways into the wall he had just found. Sam thought he saw the boy scamper into the maze of boxes, out of sight.

The rumble built in intensity, shifting the ground under Sam's feet and he came down hard on his knees. On the other side of the wall, he heard a loud, crunching crash, like brick or stone falling against itself. It sounded like some part of the building – the warehouse, if that's still where he was – was coming down around him.

With his hand still pressed against the wall for balance, Sam peered back into the utter darkness, looking for the kid. _Shit._ He was either hiding or knew of a way out. _A way out. He'd obviously seen Dean..._ Sam grasped onto the hope. He dropped down to all fours and crawled in the direction he'd sensed Daniel had gone, swinging a hand out in front of himself to feel the way and praying the roof wasn't about to come down. Instinct was screaming at him to cover his head in case debris started falling. His outstretched hand made contact with another wall, and he felt his way alongside it as the floor trembled beneath him.

He desperately wished his brother were here, calling back to him with solid reassurance and showing him which way to go. "Daniel? Are you there?" he called, pausing to bring himself up on his knees to reach both arms out in front of himself to get his bearings. There was no answer. The tremors were dying down. Sam could hear the building groaning around him and settling. Fighting the urge to just stop, just breath through the pain in his ribs, he stretched out his hands and continued his crawling exploration of the room that confined him. There had to be a door on one of the walls. Had to be an exit. _Had to find Dean._

Sam felt a hand on his wrist. A small, cold hand, pulling at him. "This way," came Daniel's whispered voice. Gratefully, Sam grasped the boy's hand and half-stood in a low crouch to follow in the direction he was being led.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the pain in his head that woke him up. Thick, pounding, blinding pain coursing in bright flashes through his skull. Dean groaned and brought his hands up to his temples, feeling for the impressive swelling that he knew would be there.

And then he remembered. _Sam, oh no, no, shit._ His eyes flew open and he jerked his head up, regretting the sudden movement as soon as it happened, and letting his head fall back with a thud. He fought through the nausea and pounding headache, blinking hard to clear his blurry vision. Double images swam in front of him and he squinted, willing his eyes to come into focus.

"Son of a…" he muttered, rolling to his side and coming up onto his elbows. "Sam!" he called, his voice grating like sandpaper in his throat. "You there?"

He peered into dim light, squinting at the shapes around him and listening for any sound from his brother. "Sam?" he called again. There was no sound. No answer to reassure him and keep his heart rate in check.

Dean cursed and reached into his pocket for his phone. He flipped it open and winced as the screen burst to light. He forced his eyes open against the sudden brightness, tears swimming in front of him.

Dean pushed himself up to his knees and held the phone up like a flashlight. Pale light illuminated the small room, casting shadows over metal file cabinets, an unbalanced office chair on four rusty wheels pulled up to a gray aluminum desk with dented, pockmarked sides, and a partially erased white board. There was no sign of Sam.

If he had to guess, he was in the district manager's office of the warehouse, the very place he and Sam had been making their way toward when the ghost attacked. His memory dredged up the black-and-white floor plan of the building that Sam had located in the town records, showing the office supply closet that backed up to a long, hollow walkway between the office and the outside wall of the warehouse. The likely site of the dead business owner's remains, and the focus of their current hunt. Dean brought the light of his phone up to the east wall of the room and noted the slatted double doors, most likely leading to the aforementioned closet and secret walkway.

Of course, Dean didn't give two craps about that particular mission at the moment. He needed to find Sam. Then figure out what the hell was going on.

Fighting down another wave of nausea, Dean dialed his brother. "Come on, man," he urged. Sam's phone went to voice mail, and Dean took a deep breath to get his shit together. He clicked his phone shut and struggled to his feet.

Dean looked around for his weapon, wondering somewhat optimistically if whatever had brought him to this room might have brought his gun along too. He thought for a moment that his eyes must be acclimating to the low light; the dim shapes and shadows making up the office furniture seemed sharper and better defined.

It was almost as if something else in the room was glowing. And then he realized how cold it was.

Dean felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He whirled around and found himself face to face with the spirit of the man they were hunting.

"Oh, _fuck me!" _Dean exclaimed. Lacking any other weapon, he reached out and grasped the back of the office chair, pulling it between himself and the ghost as a barricade. With a flick of force, the ghost whisked the chair out of Dean's hands, hurling it to crash against the thin drywall. Large chunks of the wall crumbled away, revealing bare brick and support beams.

"Get out!" it shouted. _"Get out!"_

The ghost lunged forward and took hold of Dean's shirt in both hands, bringing his face just inches from Dean's.

Dean took advantage of the ghost's momentum and stepped back in the direction it had lunged at him. It overbalanced and lost its grip on Dean, enabling Dean to roll free. Panting, Dean dodged underneath the desk as the ghost raised the whiteboard, sending it crashing into the wall with thunderous force and shattering it to pieces.

The ghost's eyes darted around the room, searching Dean out, and finally located his hiding place. Its face contorted with something like rage. "Get… OUT!" it howled. Before Dean could react, it lifted the heavy metal desk high into the air and held it over Dean's head.

Dean ducked and brought both hands up, squeezing his eyes shut, anticipating the crushing blow.

A sound like a wrecking ball hitting solid foundation erupted through the room, knocking Dean sideways and stealing the air from his lungs. He looked around in shock, realizing that the aluminum desk had hid the office wall with enough force to obliterate one of the support beams and bring down a good portion of the wall and ceiling. Bits of asbestos and drywall floated in the air and settled around him like moths.

A gaping hole in the wall opened outward into the space behind the storage closet – the secret room that he and Sammy had detected in the building plans.

Great, easy access to the bones they needed to burn – _after_ he found his brother. Dean scrambled to his feet, suddenly terrified that the damage would bring down the ceiling and bury him alive. His only thought was of finding Sam and getting out before the whole place came down.

The ghost seemed to have vanished into the chaos and noise. Dean made a dash for the door leading out of the office and yanked on the handle. It jiggled but barely budged. The room was locked.

Dean cursed, a steady stream of expletives pouring from his mouth as he threw himself shoulder-first into the door. After a few tries, he gave up and looked back at the dark, jagged hole in the wall, the edges still crumbling, bits of brick dropping heavily and clattering to the floor. It might not be a way out, but it was a start, and it was better than staying put. He picked his way cautiously back through the room over the jumbled wreckage, one arm held up to shield his head from falling ceiling matter. With his other hand he opened his phone again for the thin glow of light it offered.

He stepped through the broken wall into a long, dark hallway. The air around him felt cold, stale and unused.

Dean frowned. The light from his phone glinted off something shiny along the wall. He stepped toward it, phone held aloft. It was a glass case. Actually, a row of glass cases, set up like display cases standing on-end along the inside wall of the hallway. Dean's eyes narrowed, trying to make out what was inside each one. They appeared to hold life-size human figures. Mannequins?

Dean stepped closer. And then suddenly, his phone clattered to the ground, his hands pressed against the cold glass as he stared in horror. _"…Sam?"_

Dean couldn't breathe. Sammy's face inside the glass was impossibly pale, his eyes shut, his chest still. "God, no! No, no-no-no, SAM!"

Without any other conscious thought, he slammed his elbow into the glass surface with what should have been more than enough force to shatter the case, but his arm only rebounded painfully. The glass remained intact. He threw himself against it, pounding the surface with his fists, only remotely aware of the sound of his own voice shouting his brother's name and the tears of panic and frustration in his eyes.

_It's already too late,_ a voice in the back of his head taunted him. _Even if you do get him out. He's not breathing._

Dean shoved the thought away, fought down the emotion that threatened to paralyze him. He looked around frantically for something to use to break the glass, seizing an unevenly shaped piece of brick that had come down with the office wall. He reared back with both hands and brought it down against the glass with a wordless shout.

Nothing. Not even a scratch.

_"Dean!"_

It took a moment for the realization to reach Dean's panic-stricken brain that it was _Sam's_ voice behind him. _Sam_ was calling his name. Dean felt the room shift around him, dizzy with disorientation. He felt a hand on his arm, and he spun around.

Sam. It was Sam. Oh God, it was Sam. _But how?_

Sam caught Dean's shoulders as his brother's knees sagged, and Dean gripped Sam's arms, his weight momentarily pulling Sam down with him. A second later, Dean stumbled back to his feet, still holding on to Sam, bringing Sam close to him and looking hard into his eyes. "Sammy?" His voice was barely a whisper, and still it broke.

"Dean," Sam said, his voice laced with concern at his brother's reaction. "What's going on. What is it?"

"Jesus. _Fuck,"_ Dean exhaled, and squeezed and patted his brother's shoulders, reassuring himself that Sam was really there in front of him. Even in the dark he knew the familiar outline of his brother's features and the solid feel of his tall, lanky frame. He looked from Sam's face to the glass case behind him, then back again, still daring himself to believe what he was seeing. Sam followed his gaze.

It was too dark to see more than a few feet. Dean knew Sam couldn't make out what was inside the case. Sam took a step toward it, and Dean caught hold of his elbow. "Sam…"

"Dean, _what?"_

Sam's foot connected with Dean's dropped cell phone, and Sam reached down to pick it up. The light from the screen caught the haunted look on Dean's face first. Then Sam saw what Dean had seen.

Sam's breath caught in his chest. "What the hell?" he said softly, taking a step toward the paler, dead-looking copy of himself.

"I don't know what the hell it is," Dean said. "But it's damn creepy."

"Dean…"

"I know, right?"

"No… _Dean!"_ There was more urgency in Sam's voice, and when Dean looked, Sam was pointing the cell past the first case, further down the hall.

Dean saw the mixture of horror and confusion in his brother's eyes. He looked in the direction of the cell phone light, then he looked back at Sam, his eyebrows raised. "That's not me!"

"Obviously," said Sam, with less certainty than Dean would have liked. "Right?"

"Right. It's _not you_ in that case. And it's_ not me."_

"Right. So… shape shifter. Or. Or… skin walker. Or…"

Neither said what they were both thinking, that nothing about this felt right. That it didn't fit the m.o. of any identity-stealing creature they'd dealt with or heard of before.

"We need to get out of here," Dean said instead. Sam nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

"We need to get out of here," Dean said.

Sam nodded. He drew a breath, then winced, pulling his right arm in protectively toward his side.

Dean looked critically at his brother, suddenly aware of his too-shallow breathing and drawn shoulders. "How bad?" he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he moved to Sam's side and pushed his arm out of the way, gathering the bloody shirt up to look at the wound in his side.

"Shit, Sam," he said, taking in the angry, torn skin and darkening bruises spreading over Sam's rib cage. He put a hand over the area and pressed gently to feel for displaced bones. Sam flinched.

"These are broken," Dean informed him in his big-brother voice.

"I know," Sam said grimly, stepping back and pulling his shirt out of Dean's grasp.

"That's gonna hurt like a bitch. Here." Dean slid his arms out of his flannel shirt and yanked his t-shirt briskly over his head. Ignoring Sam's questioning look, he gripped the collar of the shirt in both hands and deftly tore it in two.

"Dean, what are you—"

"Pressure bandage," he said, matter-of-factly. "Give me your jacket."

Sam tried, but it took Dean's help to slip his arms free, and even that much movement left him seeing spots. He cooperated and allowed Dean to expertly wrap the makeshift bandage tightly and securely around his chest, grateful that each breath was no longer stabbing sharp pain into his side. It ached, but with less shrieking intensity. The relief was instant and dramatic.

Dean handed his jacket back him with a knowing grin, and Sam took it appreciatively. "Thanks," he said.

"Better?"

"Yes. A lot, actually."

As Dean was putting his flannel shirt back on, sans t-shirt, Sam nodded to the hole in the wall behind them. "Do I even want to know how that happened?"

Dean chuckled. "Let's just say I'm not exactly winning friends and influencing people here, at least as far as our friend Jacob Marley is concerned."

"Abe Montgomery?" Sam corrected. "The office manager? You saw him again?"

"Potato, po-tah-to. I must have royally pissed him off. He tried to put a desk through my head."

Sam frowned at the broken wall. "Impressive."

"Yeah, either way, we need to ditch this place." Dean looked down and pointedly avoided looking at the glass cases. "It's creepy, and not in a way I like."

Sam tapped Dean's shoulder. "Let's head back this way," he said, beckoning back toward the way he'd come when he found Dean. "The room I was in seemed to have a little more light coming in, which might mean it's closer to the exit. And Dean, there's a _kid_ here."

"A what?"

"Yeah, a kid. His name's Daniel, he's just a little kid. And I think something's keeping him here, probably the ghost that's haunting this place. We need to find him and get him out."

"Right. Okay. Any idea where to start looking?"

"He was with me when I woke up. Let's start there."

Walking further into the dark hallway, Dean began to feel as though the walls were pressing in on him. The row of glass cases continued on, each one containing a pale, still figure. Dean kept his eyes straight ahead. A sense of growing unease gnawed at him, and he struggled with the urge to just bolt and put as much distance between them and this place as possible. He knew that as long as there was someone to save, Sam would insist that they do the saving. But he still felt shaken by the sight of his supposedly dead brother under glass. On some level, he found himself wanting to just cut their losses and quit while they were ahead.

"This is it," Sam said, as the hallway turned and widened into a larger storage room. He called out, "Daniel! It's me, Sam. Are you here?"

Dean hung back. "Sam, I dunno, man. I have a bad feeling. You're sure there's a kid in here?"

"I didn't make him up, Dean!" He pointed to the center of the room inside of a maze of stacked boxes and file cabinets. "Right around here, this is where I think I was when I saw him."

"And, uh… _how_ hard did you hit your head?"

Sam shot him a disgusted look. "I _talked_ to the kid. Okay? He led me to you." Sam froze. "Wait –shh! Did you hear that?"

Dean listened. He didn't hear anything, but at the edge of his field of vision he caught a brief glimpse of a glowing figure. He held up a hand to Sam, looking back to catch his eye meaningfully. They drew back, hugging the outer wall. Dean motioned to Sam to follow. They edged soundlessly toward the ghost with Dean in the lead.

They both froze when the heard the voice through the towers of boxes stacked in the open storage room.

"Did you think I wasn't going to find out?" The voice was shouted, raised in anger, and—Dean noticed—the voice of a kid. He shot Sam a questioning look. Sam cautiously peered around the stack of boxes that hid them from sight. He looked back at Dean and nodded, looking slightly bewildered. That was the kid. Dean leaned up against Sam to join him in spying.

The ghost, old man Montgomery, the thing that had been powerful enough to tear down a solid wall, was cowering on his knees in front of a pale, skinny boy who looked to be at most eight years old.

The boy held out a small hand toward the ghost, palm facing out.

"I _told_ you," the boy said evenly. Suddenly, a blinding blast of white lightning shot from the boy's palm and through the translucent form of Montgomery's ghost. The ghost shrieked in pain. "What's mine…" Another blast, another agonizing shriek. "Is _mine!"_

At that point, a stream of continuous lightning streamed from the boy's hand forcing the ghost's back to arch as he writhed and pleaded with the boy to stop. Smoke poured from his ears, his mouth, his nose. His eyes seemed to be superheating with the same white lightning that was coursing through his ghostly form, and with a final, terrible cry, the ghost disintegrated in a sickening burst of light.

The boy huffed and rubbed his hands together disinterestedly.

Dean and Sam immediately pulled back out of sight and pressed against the stack of boxes, looking at each other with wide, terrified expressions. _What the fuck!_ Dean mouthed.

They heard the boy chuckle. "Guys," he said. "I know you're there. It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you."

Dean tried to hold Sam back, but Sam stepped around the corner into the room with Daniel, his hands raised in a show of good will. "Hey Daniel," he said, trying not to sound freaked. "It's me, Sam."

"I know." He smiled. The kid seemed to have lost the skittishness he'd had when Sam had first encountered him. "You're staying with me!"

"Oh. Oh, see, actually we…" Sam looked back at Dean who was hanging back nervously, his hand twitching like he wished he was holding a weapon. "We came to find you. To, ah, get you out of here with us."

Both Dean and Sam's gaze fell on the slightly scorched spot on the ground where old man Montgomery's ghost had met its end. It was funny how suddenly they seemed to need a new Plan B.

Daniel's smile faded a bit. "You can't leave. I just got you."

_"Got_ us?" said Dean, stepping closer to Sam so that he could signal his brother to make a break for it.

"Well, I mean…" Daniel said, looking down at his hands. "The ones that don't _want_ to stay, I have to punish them. And then they get all broken."


	5. Chapter 5

Dean could feel his pulse picking up speed. "Okay, whoa. Hold on, little man," he said. "Let's just all stay cool here."

"Daniel," Sam tried, "What do you mean _the ones that don't want to stay?"_

"You can't leave," the boy said, echoing his earlier words to Sam. He tilted his head curiously and looked sideways at Sam. "You shouldn't be hurt. I can fix you."

"What do you...?" Sam brought a hand up to the t-shirt his brother had tied around his chest, suddenly aware again of his injuries.

The boy moved toward Sam. Dean felt Sam straighten and tense beside him, and he quickly stepped in front of his brother, unconsciously shielding him from this unknown element in the shape of a small boy.

Daniel stopped, looking slightly annoyed. "Let me take care of him!" he said.

"No, that's okay," Dean said warily. "We, ah, saw how you _took care of_ the other guy."

Daniel scowled at Dean. Then he lifted a hand and gave it a slight wave. Dean stumbled to the side as if he'd been shoved, falling to his knees with a grunt of surprise. He caught himself on his hands. Sam moved to help his brother, but stopped at the expression on the boy's face and slowly straightened back up. Daniel's cheeks were flushed, and his eyes – trained on Dean – flashed with anger. Dean saw it too. He and Sam exchanged a _we-are-so-screwed_ glance, and Dean brought his hands up in what he hoped was a disarming gesture.

Apparently satisfied with brushing Dean out of the way, Daniel turned to Sam and reached out, placing a hand over Sam's aching ribs. Dean saw Sam wince at the contact, and Dean's muscles coiled in response, shifting his position into a tense crouch, ready to spring forward and knock the boy—or whatever it was—off his brother.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then Sam felt a warmth spreading through him from the touch of Daniel's hand, gripping him tight from the inside, seeking out pain and eradicating it like a virus. Sam's lungs filled with air, unhindered by the grinding stab of broken ribs, and the sudden absence of pain made him feel almost dizzy. He took several deep breaths, reveling in the flood of fresh, unhindered oxygen.

Daniel grinned, looking pleased with himself.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was asking for some indication of what was happening. Sam looked at Dean, still hovering in a cautious crouch with one knee to the ground. Sam touched his side gingerly through the bandage Dean had made him, feeling for the damage. He didn't feel any pain at all. He quickly unwrapped the fabric and pulled up his own t-shirt. The bruises were gone, the skin completely healed. The bones were unbroken. Sam looked at Dean, utterly confused.

"You stay here, okay?" Daniel said to Sam, almost gently. He turned and walked toward the hallway of glass cases, rubbing his hands together. As he passed Dean, he narrowed his eyes threateningly. "Stay here," he said. "I mean it."

* * *

Dean paced.

"Dude, can you please stop?" Sam said, not bothering to disguise the irritated edge in his voice. He was squatting beside the spot on the floor where the old man's spirit had met its end, sifting his fingers through the pile of dark ash thoughtfully.

"Oh, excuse me. Am I distracting you from your examination of our friend, the skid mark?" Dean retorted.

Sam shook his head. "This is familiar," he muttered, connecting the pattern of intersecting burn lines so that they formed the shape of a triangle inside of a circle.

"I don't like this. None of it makes any sense," Dean complained, pacing the length of the room and banging his fist absentmindedly against the far wall a few times before turning and pacing back toward Sam. "The ghost attacks us, right? Roughs us up, tells us to get the hell out. And then _junior_ fries the old man, heals you right up but says _oh sorry, _you can't leave. And by the way, there are creepy replicas of your dead bodies in glass coffins down the hall. Enjoy your stay!" He paused in his assessment and looked at Sam for confirmation. "Am I missing something or do these freaks all need to get on the same page?"

Sam hadn't been listening. He turned his head and raised his eyebrows at Dean. "Sorry, what?"

Dean stifled an eye roll and walked over to where Sam was crouching. "What's so fascinating, Einstein?"

"I swear I've seen this symbol before," Sam said, frowning. "I just can't remember where. I wish I had my laptop."

"Eh. If it's important I'm sure it'll come to you. You have a knack for ferreting out the weird."

Sam stood up and brushed the dust off his hands. "It's definitely that." He looked around at the confines of the room. "Let's get out of here. Do you want to try and double back through the…"

"The hall of creepy?"

Sam laughed. "Yeah, sure."

Either their eyes were adjusting to the darkness, or the connecting rooms were beginning to let more light into the hidden hallway. What had been nearly pitch blackness when they'd first stumbled into it now felt more like an uncomfortably dark closet.

"Any idea where our guns ended up?" Sam asked hopefully.

Dean shook his head. "Still on the main dock probably, unless something else happened between then and the time I woke up. Wait!" He pulled up short and dug into the cuff of his boot, pulling out a small dagger. He held it up for Sam to see, grinning broadly. "Hey, I forgot about you!"

"Hopefully you won't have to pull that on a ten-year-old," Sam muttered.

"Some ten-year-old!" Dean retorted. "I'd actually feel a lot better right now with the better part of an artillery in my back pocket." He tucked the knife comfortably against his palm, blade end up, and drew his shirt sleeve down over it, feeling immediately more in control of the situation.

They walked uneasily past dozens of glass cases – Dean tried to stop his brain from wanting to call them coffins, despite the pale, dead-looking people encased inside. Men and women, and even children, each standing perfectly still with their eyes closed and no signs of movement or life. He wouldn't allow his mind to wander to the two cases at the end of the hall. Instead, he kept his eyes on the fully alive and breathing little brother a few paces ahead of him and tried not to think about what the cases meant. The sooner they got out of this place, the better.

Ahead of him, Sam stopped abruptly and grabbed the sleeve of Dean's shirt, pressing them both against the wall, out of sight.

They weren't alone in the hall. Ahead of them, Daniel was standing with his head bowed and his hands pressed on either side of one of the glass cases. They both saw, on the back of Daniel's neck, a raised mark, like a scar or a birthmark, standing out and glowing bright red in stark relief against his pale skin. It was in the shape of a triangle enclosed in a circle.

"Do you see that?" Sam breathed, close to Dean's ear, not willing to risk a whisper. "It's the same as the—"

"Skid mark," Dean whispered back. "I see it. What's it mean?"

"I think I remember where I've seen it before!"

Dean put up a finger warning Sam to be quiet, and they both leaned forward to peer into the hall to see if they'd been noticed.

All of Daniel's attention was still focused on that single glass case. As they watched, the body inside it jerked, and its eyes flew open in a panic. Sam and Dean startled and looked at each other in shock, then back at the scene unfolding down the hall. The body's mouth gaped open, and its hands reached up to claw at its throat.

Sam's eyes narrowed. He leaned closer to Dean, straining to see the body more clearly through the surrounding darkness. Then Sam clamped a hand onto Dean's arm. "Oh shit," Sam whispered.

Dean shot him a warning glance. _"What?"_

"Shit! Dean," he whispered urgently, backing away from Daniel and pulling Dean with him, "it's _the same guy!_ I know what this is. I'm right."

Dean resisted Sam's grip for a moment, peering through the darkness to see if he could tell what Sam was talking about. He saw the body in the glass case writhing and straining, its struggles weakening. Its knees buckled as it slumped forward soundlessly against the glass. Then, suddenly, Daniel looked up and back down the hall, his eyes flame-red and piercing directly into Dean's.

Dean stumbled back with a gasp. As he did, his foot caught on the edge of one of the cases, and he tripped against Sam, and his grip on the knife twisted in his hand. As he caught himself, he felt the blade dig sharply, dangerously into his wrist.

"Ah, hell!" Dean cried, clamping his other hand down hard around the injury, trapping the fast swell of blood from severed veins. He let Sam pull him up and guide him with a hand on his shoulder, running at a blind sprint. When they reached the storage room, Dean was panting, cursing, and seeing spots.

"It's not bad, it's not deep, it's a scratch," he lied to Sam, leaning against the wall to steady himself as Sam frantically fumbled with his sleeve and tried to pry his fingers away from his wrist.

"Dean, let go."

If he didn't let go, he couldn't bleed out, the irrational side of his brain argued. He shook his head. "It's okay, Sammy."

_"Dean."_

He looked at Sam. Sam was looking at his arm with an odd look on his face. His stomach dropped. Shit, it was really bad. He wondered why he couldn't feel the blood seeping through his fingers.

"Dean, look. There's nothing there."

Cautiously, he peeled back his fingers and looked down. There was no trace of any injury. He made a tentative fist. There wasn't even any pain.

He frowned at Sam in confusion. "But I… I _felt_ it."

Sam stood up and ran his hands through his hair. "This is bad, Dean. Did you see who was in the case that Daniel was so interested in? It was _Abe Montgomery."_

"Skid mark?"

"Yes, skid mark. The ghost. The one that tried to warn us to get out, before Daniel trapped us here. Apparently that pissed Daniel off. Abe Montgomery's not a ghost, Dean. He's—he _was_—trapped in the spirit world. Because his body is in one of those cases."

"Wait." Dean blinked. _"We're_ in those cases. We're not—"

Sam reached out and caught Dean's wrist in an iron grip. "Look at your wrist, Dean. Did you cut yourself?"

"I-I thought I did."

"And my ribs were broken because I _thought_ they were. Do you get it?"

"You're not saying that we're..."

Sam nodded somberly. "Yeah. This is _bad."_

* * *

_To be continued._


	6. Chapter 6

Dean drew an unsteady breath and tried shake the creepy, disembodied feeling that kept trying to sneak over him. "Tell me again why I shouldn't panic."

Sam looked at him quizzically. "Did I say not to panic?"

"You always say not to panic. This would be a perfect time for you to get all logical with me about why there's absolutely no reason to panic. Because being trapped outside of our bodies with no discernible exit strategy and Malachi breathing down our necks out there seems like, I don't know. _Reason to panic."_

"Okay. So… _you_ actually want to approach something… rationally."

"Time and a place, asshole. Come on."

Sam relented, noting that if Dean wasn't willing to take the bait, then it meant he wasn't in a good place with their situation. It meant he needed facts, and that meant he needed Sam.

"My hunch is, we're dealing with an elemental, a creature that can control certain natural forces – in Daniel's case, fire," Sam told him. "That triangle symbol? The triangle is one of the earliest primitive symbols of fire. That energy field we saw him channeling against Abe Montgomery would be considered a form of fire by primitive cultures."

"Super. So we're being held hostage by a fire god."

"Probably just an immature one," Sam offered.

"You're making me feel so much better. And you figure he traps people in glass… _why?"_

Sam didn't answer. Dean raised his eyebrows and prodded. "Sam? Come on, you know this. Tell me."

"Human sacrifice. Primitive gods typically would feed on human souls."

It was Dean's turn to go quiet. At length, he said, "But… the _glass?"_

Sam shrugged. "Glass is just superheated stone, right? It's made from fire."

"Okay, so how do we kill it? Fight fire with fire?"

Sam smirked. "I wish. Elementals are pretty powerful, actually. And in our current state…"

Dean really didn't want to think about that. "Okay. Okay. Invasion of the Body Snatchers, right? Only, we need to get back to our bodies. Every horror movie I've ever seen where you get separated from your body, that's supposed to be your first priority. Or else… something bad happens. That's the rule. If you're separated from your body for too long you won't be able to ever get back. Right?"

"I really don't know, Dean. Are you sure you want to base a plan on something you might have watched at 3 a.m. on the SciFi channel?"

"Well, I'm grasping at straws here, Sam!"

"Okay, wait. You might actually have a point." He bit his lip, going deep in thought.

Dean absently reached down and picked up the knife that Sam had retrieved for him in the hallway during the scramble when he'd cut—well, _not cut_—his wrist. _Way to think on your feet, Sammy,_ he mused, twirling the tip of the blade against the pad of this thumb. It made him think about _his thumb_ being locked inside a glass case, which brought back the weirdly disembodied and creeped out feeling. He swallowed and laid the knife blade down flat against his leg.

Sam looked at him. His eyes widened with an idea. "Let me see that."

Dean frowned at the way he'd said it. "Why? What are you going to do?"

"I have a theory," Sam explained.

"Oh Christ, I already don't like it."

"A spirit is a psychic projection, it's not a physical entity. It's limited in how it can interact with the real world, right? You and I, right now, we're not physically here."

Dean winced. His comfort level with this concept was dangerously low.

"If we overload the perceived sensory input—"

"Sam. _English."_

"What I'm saying is, what if we experienced something completely foreign? Something so far outside our normal range of sense memory that our spirit selves couldn't process it? It might… cause the system to shut down and reboot. Force us to wake up."

"So, something unexpected, like…?"

Sam held out his hand for the knife.

* * *

"Dean, talk to me!" Sam caught Dean's shoulder, but Dean angrily shrugged him off and continued his agitated pacing. "Dean. Think about it. Think of how it worked with the Djinn. It makes sense."

Dean stopped and spun around to face Sam. "It's not a Djinn, Sam. It's not the same thing. But okay, let's just suppose for a second that it _did_ make sense. Because it doesn't. But let's say, for the sake of argument, that we kill ourselves. And we wake up safe and sound back in our bodies. But oh wait! They're still sandwiched inside unbreakable glass."

"I don't think it's unbreakable. We probably just can't break it _like this,"_ Sam said quietly. "In this state."

Dean just looked at him. "That's quite a leap of faith, considering you're talking about staking our lives on it. Are you basing that on anything in particular?"

"Educated guess."

"Oh, well, _awesome."_

"Dean, I really think it's our best shot. Just let me try it. If it doesn't work…"

Dean raised his eyebrows, waiting for Sam to finish. "Then what?" he prompted. "If it doesn't work, _then what, _Sam?"

"I don't know."

"Then you're dead."

"I guess."

"And I'm on my own." Dean shook his head. "Unbelievable. Just… that you just don't see it."

"Dean, I get it, I do. But look at it rationally. Right now, we're essentially Daniel's power source. He's _feeding off us,_ Dean. As long as we're trapped outside of our bodies we're just going to keep getting weaker. If we can wake up, we have a chance. I don't see a lot of options here."

"What about just outright killing the son of a bitch?"

"He's a _god,_ Dean. How?"

Dean pressed his lips together, his fists clenched. He couldn't possibly hate this any more. Finally, he said, "Look me in the eye and tell me this is our best shot. Tell me it won't end badly."

Sam met his gaze with steady determination. "This will work."

* * *

Sam was laying on the ground, and Dean was kneeling over him, the knife clutched in one hand and his other hand clasping Sammy's shoulder near the base of his neck. The edge of Sam's shirt was caught between his fingers. He gripped Sam's shoulder hard to keep his hand from shaking, but it was no good, he could feel it shaking anyway, which meant he knew Sam could feel it too. He positioned the knife over the slight dip in his brother's chest just below his sternum, angled it up and to the left.

The only thing he had to do next was find a way to distance himself from this situation so he could make himself bring the knife down with enough force to kill his little brother.

Dean felt sick. He tried to stop himself from thinking. He tried to quiet the breath that sounded too loud in his own ears.

Sam's eyes shifted up to his, wide and insistent. Of course, Sam wasn't afraid. It wasn't just that he'd worked this all out in his head and believed in the plan. He had complete trust in _Dean._ That was what held Dean back. _He_ had to be sure. And he wasn't.

"Dean," Sam said. "Don't worry. Remember your arm. This isn't going to kill me, not really."

"What are we basing this on, again?" he said softly. "An educated guess? What if we're wrong, what if I didn't really cut myself? What if you don't wake up on—on the other side of the looking glass, huh Alice?"

Sam put his hand over Dean's holding the knife. For an instant, Dean felt a surge of terror that Sam would bring the knife down on himself, but his hand over Dean's was merely reassuring. "It's a risk we've got to take, Dean."

"Well then I think I should go first."

"That doesn't make any sense, and you know it."

"Oh yeah? And why is that?"

Sam's eyes flicked away. "Because I'm…"

Dean waited for him to say something stupid. Some misplaced guilt or inferiority of Sam's that he would have to smooth back over and reassure into place, just like the bandage on a wound or the shaggy bangs he brushed out of the kid's eyes.

"I'm the one with the demon blood, Dean. I'm—Dean, you know what Dad said. If it's just a matter of time before I—"

"Shut up, Sam." Dean felt completely blindsided. They hadn't talked about The Promise in so long, Dean had let himself believe Sam had forgotten, or had at least let go of the idea that Dean would allow himself to be held to it. And now, here it was again, thrust upon him in a moment where Dean found himself kneeling over his brother with a knife in his hands. He felt betrayed. Used.

"Dean, you promised."

Dean wanted to break something, run away, scream, _do anything_ but plunge a knife into his brother's chest. He had to fight down bile rising in his throat.

"Besides," Sam went on, his eyes huge and pleading, "it has to work. It makes sense."

"Sam—" He'd been about to argue, when something rushed at him and toppled him backwards away from Sam, knocking the knife from his hand to skitter across the floor.

"THAT'S MINE!" Daniel shouted.

* * *

_To be continued._


	7. Chapter 7

Daniel stood menacingly over Sam, white hot sparks crackling between his hands.

"Wait!" Dean shouted.

Daniel thrust into the air with both hands, grunting with anger and sending Dean hurling into the wall. He hit hard, his head cracking against the rough cement.

"You can't leave!" Daniel growled at Dean.

Dean squinted through wavering vision and the pain that spiked through his head, certain the blow had fractured something important. Then he remembered his run-in with the knife blade, and all traces of the pain quickly ebbed away.

Feeling a rush brought on by his newfound sense of invincibility, he grinned madly and pushed away from the wall, making a play for the knife laying several feet away. He scooped it up and brought it out into defensive position, blade-first, as he turned to face their pint-sized attacker.

And then the bottom dropped out of his brief swell of confidence. He saw that the kid—_god,_ thing, whatever it was—had pulled Sam to his knees and had his hands on either side of Sam's head, his fingers threading through his hair. Dean met Sam's eyes, and Sam was telling him _stay back._ And damn it, Dean knew Sam wasn't worried for his own safety. But Dean was. Dean froze.

"Let him go," Dean warned. "If you hurt him, I'll kill you, I swear."

"Put the knife _down,"_ Daniel said.

Dean looked at him dangerously. "Go screw yourself. I said, let go of him."

"I don't have to do it this way, but I will," Daniel said in a low voice.

Dean's pulse skyrocketed. _Do what? What way?_ His eyes were locked on Sam. Sam's were on him. "Stop, okay? Just let him go."

Daniel smirked. "There are rules here. You have to follow the rules. They're my rules. You can live your _whole lives_ right here, with me. Or I can burn you out like a match."

"Let my brother go, and we'll talk."

Instead of answering, Daniel tensed, sending a stream of white electricity from both hands directly into Sam's skull. Sam's face contorted in pain and every muscle in his body stiffened.

Dean heard himself shouting. "STOP IT! LET HIM GO! _SAM!"_

It only lasted a moment, but it lasted an eternity. When it stopped, Sam was barely conscious. He was trying to hold his head up, make his eyes focus, and Dean could see that it was too much.

"You son of a bitch," Dean snarled.

"Put down the knife," Daniel said.

Dean gritted his teeth. He brought the knife up and took a step forward.

Daniel's grip on Sam's head tightened, sending another jolt through Sam's frame. Sam seized, his back arching and his jaw tightening in pain.

"Okay! OKAY! " Dean yelled. He very deliberately set the knife down on the ground between them.

Daniel smiled condescendingly, and let go of Sam. As soon as he did, Sam collapsed, unconscious. Daniel stepped over him to retrieve the knife. Dean was breathing hard. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, thinking about rushing the kid, god or no. He was pretty sure he could at least _hurt_ it with his bare hands at this point. But he needed to make sure Sam was okay.

"Don't try anything like that again," Daniel said, pointing the tip of the blade at Dean. "You think you're so smart? Just remember, I'm smarter."

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "Sure thing."

"And stronger."

What the hell. Was this a pissing match now? Sam stirred, and Dean shifted impatiently. "Yep!" he said. "You definitely are. We'll keep that in mind."

Daniel folded his arms in a superior, self-satisfied way and nodded. Then he vanished.

Dean dropped to Sam's side just as Sam was coming around. "Hey Sam. Sam, I'm right here. You with me?"

Sam blinked several times and swallowed. "De…?"

"Right here, man."

"…happened?"

"Fucker tried to fry you."

"Right." Sam winced and brought a hand up to rub his forehead. "Feel like shit."

"I'll bet. Just take it easy."

"He gone?"

"Yeah. And all it took was handing over all our weapons and a promise of eternal captivity." Dean grinned down at him. "Don't worry, we'll figure something out."

Sam frowned. "Dean. You _gave him the knife?"_ He struggled to raise himself onto one elbow. "Dean!"

"Sam, calm down."

"That was our only leverage! Our one shot."

"Well, I didn't have a lot of choice!"

Sam glared at him. "You had a choice. You should have stabbed _yourself_ when you had the chance and gotten out of here."

"Sam! He would have killed you."

Sam shook his head and sank back against the ground. "Well, now he's going to kill us both. It'll just take longer."

Dean frowned. "What's wrong with you, huh? Why are you talking like this?"

"I can't believe you, Dean. That you would be so _stupid."_

"Hey!"

"I should have taken _myself_ out. I'm going to get you killed. I'm a liability."

Dean grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt and yanked him part of the way off the ground so that Sam was forced to look at him. "Don't you fucking ever say that again."

He watched a range of emotions play through Sam's eyes – surprise, fear, outrage, then gratitude and relief.

"Okay," Sam said meekly.

Dean exhaled and let go. He stood up, turned, and ran a hand through his hair, staring up into space.

Sam smoothed his shirt back into place.

Something on the ceiling caught Dean's attention. Suddenly, he looked back at Sam, his whole face alight with an idea. He held out his hand. "Can you stand?"

Sam grimaced but he took Dean's hand and struggled to his feet. He felt shaky and weak, as if every muscle had been drained of its last reserves.

"How are you feeling?" Dean asked. "Honestly?"

"Honestly? Not great. Like I've had the flu for a month."

"Okay, we just have to make it back down the hall of creepy to the main office. You with me?"

Sam nodded. "What's back there?"

Dean looked up again at the maze of exposed wiring and pipes that ran the length of the storage room ceiling.

"Hopefully, a way to fight fire with fire!"

* * *

_To be continued._


	8. Chapter 8

Dean stood in front of the demolished drywall and brickwork, studying the wires that climbed the bare support beams from floor to ceiling.

"Oh, this is too perfect," he mused.

"Fill me in," said Sam curiously, leaning against the wall next to him.

Dean took hold of one of the plastic-coated electrical wires and yanked it free of the staples securing it to the stud. With a twist and sawing motion against the floorboards, he managed to cut through the wire. He held it out to Sam triumphantly, showing him the multitude of exposed wires that peeked through the shorn edge of the plastic sheath. He did the same to a second length of wire, and brought the two exposed ends together. Bright sparks snapped excitedly between the two.

"_Luck,_ Sam," Dean exclaimed. "This is what _luck_ feels like. Somehow, this abandoned old shithole is still running power."

Sam huffed a humorless laugh. "Well enjoy it while you can, because it's not gonna last long around us."

"The luck? Or the electricity?"

"Probably whichever one you need more. What are we doing with the wires, exactly?"

Dean stepped back and eyed the path the wiring traveled into the ceiling. Then he looked past Sam into the hallway where the glass cases stood ominously, silently bearing witness to the gravity of their situation. He swallowed. His gaze came back to Sam, who was waiting expectantly to hear what Dean had in mind.

His eyes fell on the desk that had broken through the wall. "Help me move this," he said, setting his weight against the desk. He didn't need Sam's help, and part of him rebelled at the idea of letting Sam expend the effort, given the dark lines under his eyes and the way he swayed unsteadily when he stood. But he knew Sam needed this. More than being mothered, he needed to do something productive.

"We want to pull as much wire out of this room as we can get," Dean explained, as they shoved the desk into the center of the room. Dean stepped up on top of it and pushed the drop ceiling slats aside. He stood on his toes and reached an arm up inside the hollowed-out ceiling, grinning with satisfaction when he felt his fingers brush against a bundle of wires. He pulled them free, gathering the length toward him as it slithered up from beneath the floorboards, and handed the coil of wires down to Sam. "Careful with the live ends," he cautioned.

Sam nodded. "Where are we going with these?"

He pushed the next panel of ceiling aside, peering with interest at the industrial ductwork. "Daniel is obviously smarter than us. But, you know." Dean looked at Sam meaningfully. "No reason _to _get _ex-ci-ted."_

Sam might have been one step away from collapse, but he was by no means off his game. Dean had put an odd emphasis on the phrase for a reason. His eyes darted up to Dean's knowingly.

_All Along the Watchtower _ by Hendrix. It was code. _We're being watched._

He gave his brother an almost imperceptible nod. "I, uh. I get that," Sam said, playing along. "So what are we supposed to do, just give up?"

"No." Dean hopped down off the desk and leaned up against it with the side of his hip to nudge it further across the room. "We get on our knees and pray."

Dean could see the faint smile playing on Sam's lips as his brain couldn't help but fill in the next sequence of lyrics in the classic rock song, along with its accompanying flourish of drum beats guitar chords.

And Sam got it, of course. He just hoped the message wasn't too obvious.

_We don't get fooled again._

* * *

Dean was standing in the center of the demolished office space holding a rudimentary trip switch, anxiously biting the inside of his cheek, which was making the muscles on the side of his face jump.

A trail of wires led from the small, metal box in his hands out into the hall, where they had rigged the wiring from the room to connect with each of the glass cases in the hall. It looked like a chain of firecrackers. One flip of the switch Dean was holding would send a surge of electricity through the entire collection.

"Come on," Dean muttered under his breath, finger playing on the trigger. "What are you waiting for?"

Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe this wouldn't work. Maybe he'd underestimated the kid.

Time to call it, he decided.

"Sam?" He yelled into the hallway. "Count of three, we blow everything sky high. You with me?"

"On three!" Sam called back from his position behind the hole in the wall.

Dean looked back to see Daniel standing not three feet in front of him, his arms crossed petulantly over his chest. Dean took a step back in spite of himself, then quickly recovered and stood his ground.

"You won't do it," Daniel said smugly.

"Oh, really? All your little boxes here are about to be history, and you along with them. No more souls, no more _you."_

He smirked. "And no more _you."_

"You really think that matters to me anymore?"

"I think _he_ matters to you." Daniel jerked his head in the direction of Sam.

"I'm done talking." Dean brought the box up made a show of sliding his thumb against the trigger switch.

"No, I'm warning you! Don't!" Daniel's voice vibrated with fear and rage, echoing off the walls.

Dean pushed the switch. A loud crackle erupted from the device as the wires connected and power surged through it.

Daniel shrieked and charged at Dean, fire-red sparks flying from his hands, his eyes red with hate and murderous intent.

Dean dropped the control box and threw his arms up in defense. _"Sam, now!" _he shouted.

At exactly that moment, the pipes connected to the sprinkler system overhead burst open and a stream of water poured down over Daniel just as he was unleashing a stream of deadly electricity. There was a hissing, popping, gurgling sound as the power he channeled was extinguished in a gush of charred black smoke.

Daniel dropped to his knees, crying out and his palms curling upward as smoke continued to rise from his burnt flesh. His eyes flashed red, and then black, and then they rolled back in his head, and Daniel fell unconscious to the ground at Dean's feet.

Dean started to call out for Sam, when suddenly the room around him wavered. He shook his head and blinked. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling. They were… _fading._

_"Oh, f—!"_

He felt himself falling, but there was no way to catch himself. He let himself be swallowed by the nothingness.

* * *

Sam came to in a panic, his heart racing. He bolted upright, panting, one hand clutching his chest. He reached out blindly. Someone caught his hand.

"Hey." It was Dean. The panic quickly began ebbing away. "Careful."

"W's I dreaming?"

"Yeah, not quite. Watch out for the glass."

Sam looked around at where he was sitting with Dean crouched next to him. Shattered glass littered every inch of the ground. The glass cases were gone. The bodies were gone. _People_ stood, knelt and huddled throughout the hall, rubbing their arms and blinking disorientedly.

Dean saw the look of utter amazement on Sam's face and grinned, patting his shoulder. "Saving people, man," he said. "It's what we do."

"They're not dead!"

"Yeah, and apparently neither are we. Welcome back!"

Sam looked down and smiled, shaking his head at the unexpectedly fortunate turn of events before taking Dean's hand and getting to his feet. The broken glass crunched noisily under his shoes. He stepped over the bundle of wires that was still looped in a lazy circle where the case holding him had stood. He nudged it with his toe. "Are these still hot?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, probably. Might want to stay away from the naughty ends or you could get yourself a nice zap."

Sam laughed. "You play a mean bluff, you know that."

"Just gotta know how to read people."

"Seriously, though." Sam looked at his brother evenly. "How did you know he would fall for it?"

"He was a kid, Sam. God or not, he was still a bratty little kid who thought he knew more than everybody else. So. Figured we could spank him with that."

"That's… pretty smart, actually."

"It _was_ pretty smart." Dean shot him a cocky grin. "You forget, Sammy, I'm not _just_ the good looks of this operation."

"But it was still a gamble. That he wouldn't know electricity couldn't blow up glass."

"Shit, Sam. For all we knew, water would have just given him a nice scrub behind the ears. It was a Hail Mary to end all Hail Maries, okay? But it worked, so I'm brilliant. End of story."

Sam rolled his eyes, turning his attention to helping the dozens of disoriented men, women and children who had just been given their lives back.

As they made their way out of the building, Sam caught Dean's arm. "Hey. I—I wanted to say… thanks."

"For?"

Sam swallowed and looked down.

"Sam, don't. Okay? We're not going to do this."

He nodded. "It's just…"

"No." He pulled Sam's chin up to meet Sam's eyes. "Knock it off. It's okay. We're fine. Nobody died, and nobody's going to die. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. If I have to spend my whole life saving you, then fine. I will. It's not like I've really got anything else going on. Okay?"

They locked eyes for a moment. Then Sam smiled. And shook his head. And Dean whacked the side of his head and called him a bitch.

* * *

_END_


End file.
